


I Just Want a Ginger Ale

by alicekittridge



Series: The Pleasures of Extravagant Life [1]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, POV Third Person, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, an ungodly amount of pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 22:07:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14986604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicekittridge/pseuds/alicekittridge
Summary: The search for refreshment ends just where she thought it would.





	1. I Live an Oxymoron

**Author's Note:**

> OR: In which the pining is mutual and both of them are annoyed at how much they think about each other. 
> 
> Hello! Hope you like this as much as I do. I promise the title comes into play later! Mostly told from Villanelle's perspective, though Eve's will enter the picture at... some point. I'll figure it out. Rated T for now but that's subject to change. Thank you for reading!

It was March. According to locals and the tourists who were visiting for the umpteenth time, it was a very strange month in New York. One moment the weather was spring-like, warmth creeping over skyscrapers and through the trees in Central Park, and then the next there was snow falling from steel-grey clouds, gathering at curbs and street corners when swept aside by plows. The worst, of course, was when it turned to slush and made ghastly lakes at the corners of intersections. Many an unlucky soul got his socks soaked when he couldn’t make his way to the outside of the crowd. Villanelle herself had learned to avoid the intersections altogether on a snowy day and follow the native jaywalkers. Today, though, was a day where spring was teasing. The snow was dripping from tree branches; icicles that’d formed on fire escapes and roofing overhangs were beginning to drip, drop, until finally they fell altogether, shattering on the sidewalk below. The air, despite its thick smell of smog and construction, cigarettes and sewage, smelled like spring too. Maybe somewhere there were flowers budding. Or the pansies—such an ironic name for a flower that survived the winter—were making their last hurrah before the summer plants took over. She could smell all this from her hotel balcony.

            It was the third week of hiatus. Her phone had been strangely silent almost the entire time. No calls, no texts. Just sitting there on the nightstand in wait. Well, she thought, leaning further over the balcony railing to see if the air was good enough for a walk, I’m like that phone too. They were both waiting for something. The phone for calls and texts; Villanelle for… something else. That was the frustrating thing. She was so used to waiting, even when on a job, but on jobs it was always over when it was time to pounce, and began again while she watched light fade from the poor sod’s eyes. This waiting was different. It was like she could feel time wasting away, a constant tick-tock-tick in her ears, like it was impatient for her to figure it out. The bastard could learn a bit of patience. She had feelings to sort through. A good deal of feelings. Feelings she wished weren’t there anymore but were, in spite of the wound that was supposed to kill them. Her hand almost wandered underneath her sweater but she stopped herself. The flesh was still tender, the scar still an angry pink.

            “No scratching,” the doctor had said. The stitches had itched like a terrible sunburn on steroids; had hurt and tugged when she moved a certain way. Even now she was careful. Three weeks later and she was still figuring out the limits of what ways she could move and what ways she couldn’t.

            Which brought her to the reason of this Escape to New York Plan in the first place. England and Paris both were intolerable. Everywhere she looked brought the specter of Eve, even though the woman herself was being evasive. She’d had to fly out of England’s airport to get here, and she distinctly remembered wondering how many times Eve had sat in those airport chairs, if she read the cheap paperback novels from the bookstores or brought her own along, what sorts of snacks she’d indulge herself in before the flight was boarding. And Paris… well, there was no going back there for a long while. It’s where the Almost-Death had happened. It’s where a knife shouldn’t’ve been a first kiss, but a touch of lips instead.

            She detached herself from the railing, a small spike of pain stabbing just below the corner of her left ribcage. She resisted the temptation to touch the new scar and instead disappeared back into the hotel room to throw on shoes and a light coat. As she tied up her boots, Villanelle briefly thought that this, of all times, would be a good way to start smoking. Those who did said it was unbelievable how it calmed the nerves. (Have a job interview you’re anxious about? Smoke beforehand. Nervous about meeting the girlfriend’s parents? Smoke before too, but don’t use Bounce dryer sheets on your clothes. That’s cheap.) They smoked despite its inevitable lead to lung cancer. Yes, it may calm the nerves, but if she did take it up, it would make this job a hell of a lot harder. Her lungs would turn blacker. She’d try to chase someone and end up doubled over and out of breath. The cough would be tantamount to a spell of bronchitis, and she’d hack up both phlegm and tar the color of motor oil. No, she’d prefer her lungs to stay a good shade of reddish pink. There were other ways of calming nerves that didn’t involve cancer at the end of it all.

 

—

 

The bartender had great hair. It was closer on the perm side, so perhaps not natural waves. God if she lived in the 80s she’d pine after every woman that walked down the street. The rockers not so much. This woman’s hair was an auburn color and reached just past her shoulders. Her skin was pale, though not at all pasty. Perhaps she’d gone somewhere warmer for the winter. Snowbirds, those people were called. Usually travelled to places in the Southwest United States where the winters were milder or didn’t really exist at all. Like Yuma, Arizona. A popular place, even to someone who’d lived in England for a good while.

            _“God I would_ kill _to go to Yuma right now…”_

She flagged the bartender. There were supposed to be no specters here, and yet…

            “What can I get you?”

            “I’ll try the bourbon. Just a single.”

            “You got it.” Her teeth were slightly misaligned, like she’d once had braces but chose to forego the retainer to keep them in line, but they were charming. And her eyes looked brown. And, now that her hands were in closer view, Villanelle could see that they were very nice hands. Perhaps, if Villanelle were a different sort of artist, she could draw those shapely hands—and maybe, if allowed, the shapely figure they were attached to—in classic charcoal. No portraits in spattered blood for this one.

            A nametag glinted on the woman’s chest. _Alexandra B._ The male patrons called her this; Villanelle wouldn’t. At least not until she paid for the drink and thanked the bartender for it before leaving.

            “Bring us another, Alexandra!”

            God they were insufferable everywhere, weren’t they?

            She took a sip of the bourbon and let it stay in her mouth for fifteen seconds. It burned, and then the flavor lingered.

            “That may have to be your last one, Danny,” Alexandra said. The smile seemed real enough. Maybe she was amused by the group of drunken men and how little their flirtations affected her.

            “It’s not the last drinks bell yet,” the bigger man, who was Danny, said.

            “You’ve been here for about three hours.” She got him another beer from the tap, set it in front of him. “Make it count.”

 

—

 

“I think you’re the most polite customer I’ve had all day,” Alexandra had said in the end, when she took Villanelle’s glass away to give to the dishwasher somewhere in the back. “Come back now.”

            Now Villanelle was strolling along the Hudson, debating whether or not it was a good idea to purchase a sea salt and caramel ice cream from the vendor down the way. She prided herself on being able to eat ice cream at any time of the year, especially in the dead of winter when other people would want hot tea. She thought of Alexandra’s last words. _Come back now._ Was it something she said to everyone, or was she taking a shine to Villanelle because she was such a change from the usual clientele? It may be worth it, she thought, stuffing her hands further into her coat pockets to ward off a sudden chilly breeze. Maybe they’d eventually end up in bed together, if the visits to that bar became frequent. She thought she’d like to explore those hands with her fingertips, or with her lips, even though they weren’t the hands she wanted to touch at all.

            In the late winter light, the Hudson was almost clear and sparkling, bouncing the reflections of buildings and boats. In the right light, though, one could see it was a ghastly green color from all the boating traffic that crossed it. Further from New York, she guessed that the water eventually cleared and was actually good for swimming. At night, the skyline glittered on the water in a pleasant way. A postcard-perfect picture. She’d take it herself, had she any photography skills. Write a short message, but to whom? She could send it to Konstantin, wherever the fat bastard was. _Hiatus is good. New York is as annoying as you are._ And there was Eve. There were many things she could say to Eve; the list would never fit on such a small space. _I’m quite angry with you. A knife to the gut really isn’t a good first kiss. Also, fuck you to the moon and back._

            “Goddammit,” she said, aloud that time. She strutted over to the vendor and took her time scanning the menu, just to see what other flavors of ice cream there were. In the end she decided on the sea salt and caramel, because it was a flavor she’d never had before, and it never hurt to try new things. She paid with a five and told the vendor to keep the change.

            She found a bench not too far away and sat down, taking in the view, licking at the ice cream that’d turned out to be delicious. The perfect blend of sweet and salty. It tasted, if she thought about it, like a creamy Werther’s caramel. Hadn’t a bag been lying on Eve’s kitchen counter? If she’d kissed her that night, Eve’s lips may have tasted like it…

             The ice cream didn’t last long. Villanelle licked what’d melted off her fingers and only took a few bites of the sugar cone before tossing it into the trash. She stayed on the bench for a moment, even though the cold metal was biting through her pants. There was an itch to do something a little brash. It’d been weeks since a new target, and she was beginning to miss the chase, the thrill of finally cornering them. But then, there was something to chase after all, something she’d been trying to trap for three weeks. And after they were trapped, there was the matter of the person behind those feelings.

            Fuck, of all the people she could meet or sleep with or want in this big dream of a city, there was only one she really wanted.


	2. Feelings Are Bastards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, the rating has been upped now. This didn't exactly go where planned but that's what happens with stories sometimes. Thank you for your patience, and for reading, as always!

If taking up smoking as a vice wasn’t going to work, then perhaps it was time to try a different tactic. Villanelle had already started the habit of purchasing outrageously expensive champagnes. The dry kind. The kind that Eve had partaken of and then smashed on her wood floors. Champagne had its place. Now she was warming up to bourbon, trying a whiskey here and there, maybe wandering to a scotch. The world of alcohol was a large one; many choices, many flavors, many mixes and matches. But on this particularly chill day, she wasn’t exactly feeling up to visiting that world.

            She was back at the bar where Alexandra worked, flipping through a drinks menu to get to the non-alcoholic page. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and so the bar wasn’t very crowded. The drunken men that’d been here before were gone, too.

            “Back again, huh?” Alexandra was in front of her now. Her hair was up today, a few strands falling to frame her Raphaelite face. “What sort of job has you out here on a Tuesday?”

            “The kind where I can declare my own vacations,” Villanelle said.

            Alexandra sighed, a smile tugging at her lips. “I’d love to have your job.”

            “I don’t know, the job I have isn’t exactly for the… soft-hearted.” She went back to the menu and _house-made ginger ale_ stuck out. “I’ll have the ginger ale today.”

            “I guess it’s not five o’clock yet, is it?” Alexandra bent over to get a glass from a lower shelf. “It’ll be right out,” she said, and scooted further down to prepare the drink.

            A fireplace was lit in the back corner. It filled the room with a sweet smoky smell. The window to its left was cracked open a bit; probably why the place wasn’t so stuffy. Once Alexandra had given her her drink, Villanelle rose from the stool and placed herself by the fire. She took a cautious first sip. The ginger ale had good flavor; the amount of ginger in it made it slightly spicy, made her tongue tingle. After a few more sips she realized there may have been too much ginger. Eventually she lowered the glass to the table and traced the rim with an index finger.

            Somewhere across the pond was Eve, perhaps staring out a window too and watching the people walk by. Was she drinking? Was there an abandoned late-night dinner at her elbow? Or was she at home with the television on to fill a house she undoubtedly, by now, had to herself? Or lying in bed wide awake, staring at the ceiling and letting her mind float into nothingness, as Villanelle had done on countless occasions? And while she succumbed to the nothingness, did her hand wander…?

            “Hardly any good happens when you stare out windows,” Villanelle mumbled, words of Anna’s that’d echoed in her classroom, and later, when they’d begun to see each other on a rather questionable basis. She stilled her finger on the glass and got up to take it back to Alexandra, who was busy wiping glasses dry and putting them back on their shelves. A little bit of sweat glistened on her forehead, caused the baby hairs at the back of her neck to stick to it.

            “I think there’s a little too much of your lovely hair in this,” Villanelle said, setting the almost-full glass in plain view.

            Alexandra paused. “What?”

            “It’s made with real ginger, right?”

            “Yeah.” Her eyes were crinkling in amusement. “How do you know this color isn’t fake?”

            “It goes with your skin.”

            Alexandra’s cheeks turned a visible shade of pink. She set a glass high up and then pointed to Villanelle’s mostly-full one. “I could get you something else.”

            “No, thank you. I think I should be going.”

            “Your boss finally getting on your case?”

            Villanelle allowed a smile. “Not yet, but I’m sure there may be an impatient postcard soon.”

 

—

 

“Fuck.”

            It was a good scar, though it was the nastiest one yet. The top looked mostly healed now, the skin shiny and smooth, just a slight shade lighter. But underneath, if she pressed on it, was still tender, and certain movements still caused it to twinge. She ran her fingertips over it several times. Amazing how the body healed. It wouldn’t be so terrible if the knife had just stayed in. Villanelle sighed, stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, having not decided on a shirt yet. “Still beautiful.”

            There was rain instead of snow. It was falling in steady sheets and it made the large window facing the street blurry, caused the lights shining through it to be distorted. It wasn’t exactly going-out weather, but she’d spent most of the afternoon holed up in the room reading a novel she’d plucked at random from a bookstore a couple weeks ago and gorging on overpriced room service. The liquor, of course, had been priced perfectly. She’d stashed the bottle in the fridge for later use. Now she was standing at the window, pulling a sweater over an expensive, pale pink blouse. The people on the sidewalks seemed unbothered by the rain, simply carrying on with umbrellas and hoods over their heads. Then she pulled on her boots and coat. Villanelle didn’t know where she would go, but she knew aimless wandering would be a little better than staying indoors.

            Manhattan was a grid, intersected by Broadway, and though the layout was supposedly easy to memorize, there were still moments where she felt like she’d get lost. Having spent four weeks here already, she was getting to know her way around. For example, she knew where the better clothing stores were, what lines on the subway to take to get to the best restaurants. And she knew by heart the way to the bar, though Alexandra hadn’t been there the last couple times. She was walking in the direction of Columbus Circle now, walking with a crowd that resembled a school of fish swimming upstream. She passed stores and offices; their large windows reflected the rainy, grey-blue landscape. A melancholy light, as Anna would’ve said. A little similar to England’s dreariness in the rain, which is attractive to a lot of people. Maybe Eve would find this noise stifling. Maybe she’d like the rain here too.

            Down in the subway, it was a little warmer, but it smelled like damp dirt and fried food and wet newspaper. On her way to the blue line Villanelle passed more shops and tiny restaurants, between which there were a cluster of red tables. There was even a doughnut shop, with posters of eclairs pasted to the windows. The blue line would go… somewhere. That was all that mattered.

            She found a seat close to the door and sat down with a large sigh. She procured her phone. Still nothing. Huh. She figured Konstantin would’ve at least called by now.

            “ _Still on vacation?” he’d say._

_“Obviously.”_

_“Well. Where are you?”_

_“Stateside. New York seemed interesting.”_

_“And how is the Big Apple?”_

_“As loud as you and as annoying as your daughter.”_

She opened Google next and typed _things to do in new york._ The first thing that popped up was _Have you been to New York’s most famous deli?_ Curious, she clicked the link, and a website opened.

**Katz’s Delicatessen**

**Est. 1888**

Located on East Houston Street, this famous deli is known for their piled-high pastrami and corned beef sandwiches. Many celebrities have stopped to eat here, and many movie scenes have featured this deli as part of the plot. Eat like a local, or order from home. This deli ships their food nationwide!

 

            Seemed like a decent place for an afternoon snack. The ride over would only take about fifteen minutes.

 

            The restaurant was warm once Villanelle stepped through its glass doors. She was given a ticket. People exiting gave another worker theirs. So that’s how that worked. There were grains on the floor that crunched under shoes. And the place smelled richly of fresh-baked bread, carved meat, and smoke. Even though lunch was only a few hours ago, her stomach was already twisting again. Corned beef sandwiches were a thing in the UK, but pastrami on rye seemed a pure American creation.

            She got herself a pastrami on rye with a can of Schweppes ginger ale and found herself a table close to a window. It was laden with napkins and a squeeze bottle of spicy brown mustard, which she first tried on the tip of a finger before putting it on one half of the sandwich. It was a giant thing; god, American portions were enormous, and barely able to be finished, for that matter. Were they so large because it was expected that one would share their food with someone else?

            The first bite of sandwich was like biting into heaven. The mustard complimented all the flavors. As she worked, Villanelle allowed herself to wonder if Eve had ever come here—Connecticut wasn’t too far away, was it?— in her life, or if, if things had gone just _a little_ differently, they would be sitting here together and sharing this monstrous thing.

            Maybe that was something to put in a postcard.

            _Still angry with you, but I’d also like to know: Do you like pastrami on rye?_

Second-lunch passed much that way, Villanelle thinking of Eve. What sandwiches she liked. Her favorite soft drink. What she was up to now, whether she was still somewhere in London and what the weather was like. (Would she be walking, if it was good weather? Or, if it was dreary, riding the underground with no particular destination in mind?) What she was wearing. If she was the kind of person who showered before bed or after waking up with the sunrise. The thoughts spiraled, became too muddled with both admiration and bitterness. _I really liked you._ Still fucking did.

            She practically wolfed down the last of the sandwich before fixing to leave. She gave the worker at the exit her most charming smile and said, in a perfect English accent, “It was wonderful.” And she was back out in the cool, steel-grey world.

            Where to, where to? she thought now, walking back in the direction she’d come. The rain was slowing down now, becoming a drizzle. She thought about returning to the Hudson path she’d walked the other day, the one with the ice cream vendor, but it was a bit of a far walk. There were shops not too far from here. The hotel was only a very modest spending of her budget, three-hundred something a night not including the pricey room service. Maybe it was time to spend a little more. Or, at least window shop a bit. No harm ever came from staring into stores, did it?  

            There was a different sort of pleasure to be gained from browsing in expensive stores. She could run her hands over rich fabrics all she liked, try on all the dresses and pantsuits she fancied, enjoy the squeak of a brand-new Kate Spade wallet, breathe in the perfumes like they were much-needed albuterol. She was drawn to the pantsuits; the weather outside didn’t call for dresses. Bright colors were coming back in style: peacock green, dusky gold, rosy pink. The colors could be contrasted, of course, with a dark jacket and slacks, and a nice pair of dark brown shoes would tie it all off. Then there were the classics of black and white, black and grey, grey and white, and black on black. Villanelle held each color outfit up and viewed it in the mirror. Peacock green definitely wasn’t her color. Nor was the gold. The pink, maybe; it brought out the blonder streaks in her hair, made her eyes a little more prominent.

            “Rosy pink,” she said, slinging the outfit over the inside of an elbow. “Not terrible.”

            Next were the shelves of blouses. These seemed to come in every color and shade and were all made of silk. Her collection had grown in size already; the wardrobe in her Paris apartment was sure to be overflowing sometime soon. But, she thought now, eyes straying automatically to the smaller sizes, not all of today’s purchases had to be for her. She spied a charcoal grey blouse and followed her mind as it pictured Eve in it. She took the blouse from its rack and paired it with a pair of black slacks and a suit jacket. All it needed was a pair of boots, or some casual heels, and a nice perfume to go with it. Yes, Eve would look wonderful in these; she’d match the Europeans’ affinity for darker colors.

            Close to an hour later, Villanelle was laden with four choice outfits, a box of heels, and two different perfumes: one was a musky floral, the other a light vanilla. She put the rosy pink pantsuit back on its rack. Across the way, a woman emerged from the dressing room and stood in front of the full-body mirror, wearing an evening gown. Her heart squeezed a little at the memory of gazing at Eve much like this, admiring her from afar after she’d fastened that belt round her waist. She averted her eyes, jaw clenched. If she saw Eve, she’d ask where the knife was and whether Eve would be up to carving out her heart too.

 

—

 

“Did your date leave you waiting?”

            Alexandra set a cocktail in front of her. It looked like Listerine mouthwash. Villanelle stirred it with the straw. “Nope.”

            “Why the nice clothes then?”

            She shrugged. “Felt like dressing up.”

            The evening was a warmer one. The fire in the corner wasn’t blazing; it was only a smolder of coals, glowing red-orange. The bar was filled with Friday night patrons, noisy with shouts and laughter and hoots. Alexandra had more help tonight, which allowed for a little more conversation.

            “What time do you get off?”

            The cocktail was fruity and had an undertone of vodka. A very dangerous drink, this one. 

            Alexandra looked at her in surprise. Probably used to getting that question from men. “Half an hour. Why?”

            Villanelle shrugged again.

            Alexandra smiled a little, and it lit up her eyes. “All right, be cryptic about it then.”

 

            The sun was setting by the time they climbed into a cab together and the rain was heavier than its earlier drizzle. Looking out the windows was like looking through an oil painting at the world.

            Alexandra was a little different in the cab. Now that she was away from the loudness of the bar, its haggling patrons, the constant pouring and mixing of drinks, she was quieter. Confident, still, but her breath was coming a little quicker, and Villanelle glimpsed her swallowing on more than one occasion. She let her hand settle on Alexandra’s knee. Even through the jeans her leg was warm. Villanelle was looking at her proper. There were barely-disguised bags underneath her eyes, a bit of a start of crow’s feet at the corners of them. Laugh lines too, but they made her look charming, in a way. And her hair was a little bigger because of the humidity. Cautiously, Villanelle put a loose strand back behind Alexandra’s ear. It was soft to the touch. All the more reason to run her fingers through it later.

            “How long are you staying?” Alexandra asked after a moment. She hadn’t pulled away. Her face was a little red.

            “Until I sort things out.”

            “Is it your boss?”

            She only hummed and let her thumb draw lines on the top of Alexandra’s knee. Her collarbones were exposed by the cut of her shirt and despite the coolness of the weather, there was sweat beginning to bead on them. Then, “Don’t be nervous. I’ll be nice to you.” She dragged her hand a little higher, squeezed slightly. “Unless you don’t like nice.”

            “Oh, nice is just fine.” Her breath came shorter. Guess she was one of those types when aroused.

            Villanelle hummed. She kept her hand where it was for the duration of the ride.

            When they stumbled into her hotel room minutes later, it was bathed in golden light. The maids had come sometime in Villanelle’s absence and so the bed was freshly made, the carpets vacuumed and smelling like carpet cleaner. The door shut behind them and she immediately pressed Alexandra to it, leaning in close, almost kissing her. She said lowly, “You’re going to stand here and I am going to kiss you.”

            Alexandra nodded, looking almost like a bobblehead. “Okay. Yes.”

            Like with all kisses, it started out sloppy but tender. Every person had a different way of kissing, a different rhythm to their lips; all you had to do was figure it out and then you’d be in time. Alexandra’s kisses were light, filled with nervousness. Her mouth tasted like her red lipstick. This close to her, Villanelle could smell the lingering scent of her shampoo. A lavender? Or something with rose hips?

            She buried her fingers in Alexandra’s hair. Soft and fine, not as thick as Eve’s, yet there was still plenty of it. She moved to kiss Alexandra’s neck but a hand pressing against her sternum made her pause.

            “Wait,” Alexandra said.

            “Something wrong?”

            “Uh… no. No, it’s wonderful. It’s just…” She paused, took a breath. “It’s been a while.”

            “How long is a while?”

            Alexandra’s face turned redder. “College. Twelve years ago.”

            “It’s not a problem,” Villanelle said, and Alexandra sighed with relief.

            “You’re a good kisser.”

            “It gets better in bed.”

            They stayed against the door for a long stretch of minutes, hands wandering but not yet brave enough to travel underneath clothes. At least, until they were finally waltzing to the bed and undressing. Villanelle tugged her sweater over her head too roughly; her wound gave a protest and she only inhaled a breath. Alexandra’s eyes were on the scar.

            “What happened?” she asked.

            “I was mugged.”

            “When?”

            “Four weeks ago, when I was in Paris. It’s nothing.” Yet Alexandra reached out and touched it gently with her fingertips, stroking the new skin. Like Sebastian had with her black eye. _I’ll never hurt you._ Would Eve do this too? Stroke the scar and drown in regret? Sink to her knees, like Alexandra was doing now, to kiss it? God, her mouth was soft. She held Alexandra there, let her explore with her mouth for a while, until it became too much and she practically manhandled her onto the bed.

            “How do you like it?” Villanelle asked.

            “Softer. Nothing too rough.”

            She spent minutes exploring Alexandra’s body with hands, following with lips and teeth and tongue. Couldn’t help but close her eyes and imagine someone different. If she closed her eyes, it was Eve underneath her, soft skin, breathy sounds and all. Eve whose breath stopped in her lungs when she was close. But later, the weight on top of her was wrong, and opening her eyes wasn’t looking into Eve’s lovely brown ones. Villanelle closed her eyes again, shutting out the evening sunset. She was good at pretending. It was a game she’d played for years now.

            The room grew warmer as her breath grew shorter, more desperate. Her eyes were screwed shut now, so close, so close… it escaped before she could stop it. “Eve…”  

 

—

“I’ll see you again sometime, won’t I?”

            Alexandra was nearly out the door, bending down to fix her shoe. Her hair was back up and looked as it did before this entire fiasco. The only things that gave it away were the blooming bite on her shoulder and her slightly wrinkled clothes.

            “Maybe,” Villanelle said.

            “It’s happened before, you know. Someone calling me the wrong name. It’s… no big deal.” And with that, she gave a little wave, and shut the hotel door quietly behind her.

            Villanelle nearly banged her head against the headboard but the hotel’s too-fluffy pillow was there instead. It’d been good, the sex, for sleeping with someone who hadn’t slept with a woman since college. Great, even. Except for… that. And the parts she’d imagined it was Eve’s skin she was kissing or biting or exploring with outstretched fingers. It’s probably what would’ve happened in Paris. Their lips would’ve finally collided, someone would’ve moaned, and it would’ve escalated. And the knife would’ve clattered to the floor instead.

            She felt too alive to sleep. By New York time, the night was still young. How better to blend in except to stay up with the city that never sleeps? She climbed out from underneath the suffocating covers and put her clothes back on, then stepped to the closet to where the grey-black outfit was still hanging. Tomorrow she’d get a box, tissue paper, packing tape, ribbon, and stationery, wrap the whole thing up with the perfumes, and take it to the nearest UPS store. There’d be a postcard to go with it, which could be purchased from the hotel’s gift shop. She shut the closet doors, grabbed her key, and made her way to the lobby.

            The gift shop wasn’t crowded; it was near its closing time anyway. The cashier said a friendly but tired hello and went back to the register. There was a rack of postcards towards the back. She studied them all with careful consideration, drawn to the classic black and white ones but also to the ones with vivid color. There was brightly lit Times Square, a neon Radio City Music Hall, a wintry gold of the Rockefeller Centre ice rink. Turning the rack once clockwise revealed a slightly desaturated, blueish portrait of the Statue of Liberty. It was the only one left.

            Once purchased, Villanelle took the Statue of Liberty postcard back to her room. She flipped it over, and in the message section she wrote, _Fuck you to the moon and back XX_


	3. Home Alone But My Name Isn't Kevin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POV switch this time. Sorry it took a little bit; I had a bit of trouble writing this chapter.

It was 4 am and she’d just run out of Klondike Bars.

            The perks of returning to bachelorette living—if that was really what this could be called—were as follows: she could drink as much wine as she pleased, without Niko gently prizing the bottle away with a “Hey now, that’s plenty”; and she could eat Klondike Bars until 4 AM while fighting off a nasty hangover too. Eve crumpled the foil wrapper, tossed it in the trash beside her new bed. The numbness of being drunk was worth it, she thought, but the headache afterwards was a dick.

            Which went well with the events of her life too. It’d started to ordinarily but turned so suddenly into cat and mouse and unhealthy obsessions. It was Villanelle’s fault. Had she not turned up in Europe at all, the train Eve was on wouldn’t’ve derailed and instead would’ve stayed on its ordinary track. Clearly life had other plans. It wanted their strings tied together in a tight knot, so that no matter how far away they were from each other, they wouldn’t get very far at all. No amount of Klondike Bars or wine could fix that.

            After many years of having a house with another person, the silence was strange. It felt wrong somehow, like her ears were always ringing, trying to pick up sounds that weren’t there at all. No heavy footsteps early in the morning as Niko made his way from bed to shower, then shower to kitchen to make the morning’s coffee. No hard, warm body next to hers in bed, snoring away when in deep slumber. No phone conversations from the kitchen about work or after-work activities. Sound was strange, Eve thought now, leaving her bed to wander around the cool house for what seemed to be the millionth time. Sound meant signs of life. And now that they were gone, it was as if Niko had blinked out of existence. (Which wasn’t true, of course. Eve had glimpsed him on the streets a couple times, feeling like a schoolgirl admiring her crush from a good distance away. Except there was no crush. Just a break-up still tied by a ring.)

            So many fucking strings. Niko was gone and yet she still felt one. Villanelle was gone too and yet she felt many more. It was as if she’d escaped from one web but found herself trapped in another, with a much more cunning fly. A fly whose apartment she’d trashed. A fly whose presents still lay in their box but ones she took out and wore.

            “Are you wearing a new perfume?” Elena had asked on one of those days. They’d gone to lunch, when Eve couldn’t stand being in the new house for more than three days and asked Elena if her life was just free enough for a lunch date.

            “Yes.”

            “Since when do you shop for perfumes?”

            “I didn’t shop. It was… sent.”

            “Sent? By whom?” And when Eve hadn’t answered, Elena said, “Oh shit.”

            “She has good taste and I like the smell, what can I say?” Eve said, and dove back into the salad in front of her.

            It was the perfume with Villanelle’s name on it. It was musky, strong, but a little on the feminine side. Definitely not floral. Of all things, Eve didn’t think Villanelle would be the type of person to like floral perfumes. At least not on herself.

            Eve found herself back in the kitchen. The blinds over the sink were still open from earlier, offering a view of the houses across the street, the orangey streetlamps illuminating the asphalt and grey sidewalks. Her life had changed a little in a kitchen. It seemed like years ago now, having dinner with Villanelle while shaking like she was suffering from hypothermia. A strange woman. A cold killer with romantic thoughts, who just wanted dinner and a movie with somebody. Normal stuff. With a good job on the side.

            “Don’t we all,” Eve said, scouring the freezer again and coming up with a meager pint of Dreyer’s vanilla. Good enough. Klondike Bars could come later, when she actually felt like going out.

 

—

London seemed intent on copying her mood. It was a dreary, grey March day; the weatherman droning from someone’s phone as she’d ridden the underground said the rain was likely to last all day, with showers and thunder in the night. Eve felt rainy inside too. Grey, like the landscape, and empty. She guessed that that’s what happened when you lost a best friend, a husband, and a job. And once you tried to commit murder but ended up regretting it as soon as the knife had sunk into delicate insides.

            “Don’t pull it.”

            Would things have turned out differently if she hadn’t panicked and did the opposite? No ghastly red stain spreading alarmingly quick across pink, no blood dripping between fingers that had, just moments before, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with all the gentleness in the world. Christ, Eve thought, pausing completely in the middle of the sidewalk, if only she hadn’t done it. If only she’d tossed the knife away and told Villanelle to kiss her instead. (Those fingers would’ve been in her hair, and the kiss would’ve been gentle, because Eve had never kissed a woman before…)

            She picked up her walk again and found a couple tables underneath an awning and collapsed into one of the chairs. Somehow she felt like Atlas, but instead of a whole world on her back it was a crumbling one. Probably held together with Scotch tape at best. Scotch tape and strings.

            “Wish you were here, Bill,” she murmured. He’d probably tell her she needed a nutty bar, and then he’d hand her her ass in the clever yet humorous way he had.

            _“Still thinking about that woman?”_

_“It’s what keeps me up at night.”_

_“You were always good at finding things. What makes this any different?”_

To begin with, there wasn’t a single trace of Villanelle anywhere. The only things Eve had of her were the clothes and perfume she was given and a handwritten note of _Sorry Baby xx._ Not to mention guilt and confusion and attraction and lust, but those were different things. No new murders cropped up. The newspapers and news stations only reported minor crimes or attempted murders, none of which were Villanelle’s style. She was better than that. (If she stole, no one would know.) But it did tell Eve something. After she’d gone from her apartment in Paris, she’d vanished. Unlike seeing Niko from across the street, Villanelle was thin air. Nowhere in Paris. Nowhere in London. Hell, maybe not even in Europe at all. Maybe, Eve thought, placing her booted feet on an unoccupied chair, she ended up somewhere she’d never been. The US, maybe. New York, or Chicago, or even Los Angeles with nice sunny beaches. She did like big cities. Why else would she travel between London and Paris?

            Eve marked those places down as options. _New York. Chicago. Los Angeles._ It was unlikely that she would travel there herself. Funds were still good, yes, but in this time of joblessness and the absence of Niko and his income, it was time to be frugal. It seemed that the only option she had now was to wait for a sign. Another package. A postcard. Or simply Villanelle showing up at her door one night, with or without a knife. Revenge would only be fair, after all. She’d slip the knife in, and while Eve was shuddering out breath Villanelle would say, “Now we’ll match,” and then pull it painfully out.

 

—

_“What’re you doing right now?”_

“Playing Solitaire for the thirtieth time,” Eve said, shuffling the thin cards with practiced hands. “I’m beginning to feel like I’m on house arrest.” Her phone was at the corner of the kitchen table, on speaker, Elena’s picture smiling up at her from its circle.

            _“Solitaire will do that.”_

“Are you calling to check in on my not-life?”

            _“Yeah, but I was also hoping you’d have a moment for dinner.”_

“Maybe if we can stop by the store after. I’ve run out of Klondike Bars.”

            _“Oh, so you’re tough-as-nails usually, but when you run out of ice cream, the world ends?”_

Eve rolled her eyes, finally setting the cards aside. “It’s a coping thing,” she said.

 

            They found themselves at the usual pub despite the memories it held. Not even mourning and other negative feelings could keep them away from their favorite out-to-eat foods. They sat towards the back, where the bar was closest, and it almost felt like before. Almost.

            “Any new developments?” Elena asked after a while.

            “Still alone like a bachelorette.”

            “Not what I meant.”

            Eve sighed. She’d hoped the subject of Villanelle would remain a private one for the time being, where she could think of it in the safety of her own home. “No,” she said, after a moment. “Nothing. No deaths, no social media or news clippings. It’s like she’s evaporated.” Like smoke, Eve thought, but the smell lingered. “I wish Bill were here.”

            Elena nodded. “Me too.”

            The rest of dinner was mostly silence, until they were getting up and putting their jackets back on. Eve asked, “Want to help me pick out Klondike Bars?”

 

—

The Friday nights were the worst. Before everything, before the brilliant train-wreck that was Villanelle, Niko would come home from work early, and together they’d go to the pool hall for bridge and beers. The games and the conversations lasted hours, filled with laughter, arguments, sometimes even drunken fights between the boys if it ever came down to that—which was a rare thing. Normally, bridge was a civilized card game. Other times they would leave the game early and come back home, buzzed and happy from the alcohol, laughing all the way to the bedroom. Now that light was out, and Eve’s Friday nights were filled with takeaway and hours stretching into forever.

            There were only so many times she could play Solitaire, or lie on the couch staring at the TV but not taking in any of its images, or wander about the new house—whose layout she’d already memorized. Sometimes she missed Niko, his warm presence, that deep voice, but if she thought long and hard she realized that there weren’t many feelings for him left. Guilt, maybe; pity, even. He’d lost someone too, after all, someone that had spent a large chunk of time in his life. Was he feeling an emptiness too? Did the house seem quiet without Eve there? Did he lie awake in bed and think that it felt too big? But the thoughts never lingered long. They would always come back to Villanelle. To the knife. The look of pain and betrayal on Villanelle’s face. Her whispered “Don’t pull it.” To the blood that Eve could still feel on her hands even though she’d washed it off weeks ago. To thoughts of what a kiss from her would be like, what it would feel like to have her hands wandering…

            A commercial came on, alarmingly loud. Eve switched the TV off then, realizing that her Klondike Bar had melted in its bowl. Sloppily, she tipped the bowl to her mouth and drank the rest like milk, and made her way into the kitchen to put the bowl in the sink. The dishes were stacking up.

            “Tomorrow,” she told herself.

            _Always tomorrow,_ said a little voice in the back of her head. _A perpetual tomorrow._

            Despite the streetlamps glowing, the moon was brighter. It projected a streak across the foot of her bed, blue-white, startling. Wherever Villanelle was, did she see the same moon? Or was it day? Was she spending her extravagant fortune on extravagant things? Or drowning her anger in a bar somewhere? Only God knew. Even if there was one, Eve doubted even He would tell her where Villanelle was.

            “Gotta respect privacy. You stabbed her, after all. Nothing says betrayal like stabbing someone who trusted you.”

            “I’m sorry,” Eve murmured into her too-fluffy pillow. She’d regretted it as soon as she’d done it. She wished she could turn back time somehow, throw the knife away.

            _I haven’t done this before._

            _It’s okay. I know what I’m doing._

            _Kiss me._

            “Kiss me,” she whispered now. Testing the words. Tasting them. Would she? Would Villanelle kiss her if she asked? She didn’t deserve Villanelle’s kiss. She deserved something else. An eye for an eye. A matching wound, though it would be made worse, if Villanelle so desired. She could twist the knife. Or take it out and stab her again. And again. And again. But Eve had asked if Villanelle would kill her, and she’d shook her head. Perhaps, after all that happened, there would be a fifty-fifty chance. Toss a coin. _Heads is I do as you ask. Tails is I kill you._

            Eve hoped it was heads.


	4. Postcards From Stateside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longer wait, this chapter ended up being over 4k words and was a bit troubling to write. Hope you like it!

_F_ _uck you to_ _the moon and back XX_

Villanelle took pleasure in imagining the look on Eve’s face once she opened the package. It brought a little smile to her mouth, something that, as of now, hadn’t happened in a while. Once opened, Eve would know she was in New York, but it was very unlikely she would fly all the way here, since Eve was most likely out of a job. She was probably living somewhere else now, having lost her husband. She wondered if Eve found the silence refreshing or frightening.

            She folded tissue paper over the clothes and perfumes and set the postcard on top. Then she taped the lid, placed the box in another, and taped that shut too. She wrote Eve’s old address on the package in Sharpie.

 

—

There was nothing else to do but wait. The package had been sent off. It would arrive in London in a week or so, and until then, there was more waiting. An endless amount of it, thought Villanelle, dragging a finger over the rim of her champagne glass. Alexandra was absent for the time being, most likely still a little wounded from the night Villanelle had called her Eve. Took a day or two off from work so that she didn’t have to run into Villanelle at the bar. It’d been a slip of the tongue. Surely other people could relate to that.

            Tired of the champagne, she slid the glass further up the bar and flagged the other bartender. She asked, “You still have the ginger ale sampler?”

            “We do.”

            “Bring me that.”

            It was a rack of shot glasses filled with the most popular brands in North America: Schweppes, Polar, Buffalo Rock, Seagram, Vernors, and Canada Dry. Each had a distinct flavor difference and some were more gingery than others. The last shot she downed was the Canada Dry. She chased its flavor around for a moment. Then, “Perfect.”

 

            By the time she left the bar, it was only after three in the afternoon. Villanelle didn’t feel like returning to her hotel room right away; she also felt like getting away from Manhattan for a little while. She thought that, if she did, she’d stop looking for a certain face.

            She’d heard about Long Island a long time ago. It’d been on a particularly cold winter day after classes and making love on Anna’s chair by the window. Anna had been smoking a cigarette. She often had a habit of voicing her internal thoughts aloud when they were alone.

            “I’ve been to America,” she said. “One of its staple cities.”

            “Which?”

            “New York.”

            “Was it wonderful?” Villanelle was pouring the dry red wine. Like Anna’s cigarettes, it was a post-coital tradition.

            “Yes. Quite different from here, but the noise made it feel like I’d taken parts of Moscow with me. I stayed in Manhattan but went elsewhere when my time allowed. My favorite was Long Island. I was there in winter.” She shivered, dramatized with a trill. “Oh, it was _freezing!_ But it made the boardwalk look like something out of a fairytale.”

            Villanelle brought the glasses over. Anna put her cigarette in the ashtray, still burning. She asked, “Do you have pictures?”

            “Of course,” Anna said, smiling, giving her a playful slap to the shoulder. “You should know by now. It’s that fat album on the bottom right.”

            They’d spent a good while looking over those pictures, conversing in French about all of them, since French seemed to be the only language capable of capturing the beauty of things. The wine emptied quickly, and they eventually left the album abandoned on the floor, climbing back into that chair.

            Sometimes it was funny how life could bring things back from the dead.

            Villanelle had imagined herself on Long Island when looking through those photographs, more so when Anna said they’d go there someday, walk that famous boardwalk, but never did she imagine she’d ever have the means to get there. Europe had kept her occupied. Anna had kept her back, at least until Villanelle had murdered her husband. Dreams had been shattered, hearts broken. No more lovemaking on a chair. No more cigarettes and wine that led to more.

            “Dreams come true, Oksana,” Anna had said. “Even if it takes a little while.”

            It was cloudy by the time she got there. They were rolling in from the sea. The waves were choppier and still there were people braving the surf, or lounging close to where it crashed into the shore. She wondered how warm the water was, but the shoes and pants she was wearing weren’t the ideal things to wear when she wanted to dip her feet in. And unlike Paris, American beaches didn’t like when someone wasn’t wearing a swimsuit underneath their clothes.

            There were other tourists on this boardwalk too, laden with camera bags on a shoulder and an expensive camera, which they aimed at the sea, or the buildings, or down the boardwalk. Anna had been one of these tourists, except she stood in snow and biting wind to take the photographs that’d been in that album. It hadn’t changed much. Only the outfits that people wore, to keep up with modern fashion trends. Villanelle walked on, wondering what Eve would think of this place. If she was the kind of person who loved the ocean or was terrified of it but would still stick her feet in anyway. If she’d collect shells from the sand to keep in a glass jar in the bathroom. Or if she’d gorge herself on expensive food and insist they lounge the afternoon away in a lawn chair.

 

—

The phone rang once. Twice. Then Elena picked up.

            _“Did you run out of Klondike Bars again?”_

“I promise the fridge is fully stocked,” Eve replied. “I actually need a huge favor.”

            _“What’ll it cost?”_

“Dinner that isn’t frozen or half-burned.”

            Elena laughed. _“You are such a disaster in the kitchen. What’s up?”_

Eve chewed a nail. “I’m going to be in Paris for a bit. I don’t know how long but I’ll keep you updated. I may need you to check the mail at my old address.”

            _“Are you expecting another package?”_

“I don’t know, I’m keeping my eyes peeled.”

            File boxes opened and closed on the other end of the line, papers rustled. Eve heard part of a conversation between two men but couldn’t make out the words. How strange it was to not be stuck in an office.

            _“All right. I’ll do it after work every evening until you get back. When are you leaving?”_

“Sometime today,” Eve said. She still had to purchase train tickets, and pack some essentials. She’d taken her suitcase with her when she’d left the house and Niko behind.

            _“Shall I send some croissants for the road?”_

“That would… be lovely, actually.”

 

            They had croissants and wine in the kitchen, the table littered with plates and glasses, Eve’s laptop taking up most of the space. The tickets were barely affordable, but she would have to make do. This was something she had to do, after all, even if it lead to a dead end.

            “So,” Elena said, breaking the long silence, “you’re going to Paris to try to find this woman.”

            “Keyword is _try_. I don’t know what’ll happen.”

            “No stabbing, I hope.”

            “Oh, we’re way past that. I’m not that kind of person.”

            Elena’s brows shot up. “It took stabbing someone in a place that would cause them to bleed out quickly to understand you’re not that kind of person?”

            Eve only shrugged.

            Elena shook her head.

            “I keep meaning to ask you how work is,” Eve said.

            “Oh, it’s not that interesting. Kinda quiet without you there, though.”

            She felt humbled. “Thanks.”

           

—

Eve preferred trains over planes. The main reason was trains seemed less likely to get into dangerous accidents. You didn’t have to worry about whether the crash landing would kill you or injure you, because the train was already on the ground. But there was also a little more freedom in trains, and you could stand up whenever you wanted instead of being glued to a seat for a stretch of hours. Eve chose a window seat. Even after the train pulled away from the station, the seat to her left remained empty.

            Eve arrived just as the sun was setting. She was met with gold and blue and pink skies when she emerged from the station, suitcase rolling behind her. Already the buildings were sparkling, telling tales of the nightlife. Eve knew she would be awake with them.

            She took a taxi to the cheap-ish hotel she was staying at, not looking out the window but at her phone, where she’d quickly typed in the address to Villanelle’s apartment in the notes app. It was too late to drop by; that would have to wait till morning.

            The room was on the small side, with only one bed, a tiny desk shoved into a corner and a lamp sitting on it, and green curtains dangling on either side of the window, which offered a view of the street. The bathroom looked like it hadn’t seen updates since 2008.

            If she was being honest, Eve had no idea how long she was going to be in Paris. She’d packed a week’s worth of clothes, just in case, though she only hoped this trip would last a maximum of three days. It was just a matter of retracing steps and hope she was headed in the right direction.

            She unpacked her suitcase, and then it was a shower and dinner.

 

—

Villanelle had stayed at Long Island for most of the day, on a self-guided tour of wanderings. In the end she’d taken off her shoes and rolled up her pantlegs so she could dip her bare feet in the surf. Being March, the water was colder. Not ideal for swimming, in her view, but just pleasant enough to let kiss your feet and ankles. She’d stood in the surf for a while, admiring how the light got bluer the further into evening it got. It was one of those moments she’d wished she had a camera with her. To take new photographs and not be haunted by the ones she remembered from Anna’s album.

            Fucking specters.

            She was back in Manhattan now, a day later, eating an early lunch at a pizza place in the Theatre District. According to a Google search, this restaurant had once been a bank. It was two stories and entirely massive, and on the back wall there was a mural of New York as it could be seen from above, but from a time long passed.

            There was something a little romantic about this restaurant. It was darker, and the lights were more gold—it made the atmosphere intimate. Everywhere Villanelle looked there were couples, or a group of friends, or business partners having a meeting. She liked the atmosphere, liked the lighting. But there was someone missing. Someone she was supposed to be sharing this meat supreme pizza with. It was barely big enough for one person.

            “Have the last slice,” she’d tell Eve. It was only courteous.

            She was tidying the grease from her face when a familiar figure paused in front of her table. She looked up and Alexandra said, “I thought I recognized you.” She looked happier. Maybe it was a result of too much wine consumption. “Have you been back to the bar since… well, since last time?”

            “Yes,” said Villanelle. “Your house ginger ale still tastes like shit.”

            Alexandra smiled. “We’ll get it right one of these days.” She shifted on her feet. “Well. I shouldn’t interrupt.”

            “What’re you doing later?”

            “I’m off work today, so… Waiting outside for you?”

            Villanelle nodded, allowing a little smile. “I won’t be long. Promise.”

 

            Killing this woman would be easy. All she had to do was stay where she was, let her hands wrap around Alexandra’s throat, and squeeze. Kill her just as she was coming down from climax. One hand did wander there and it was so tempting, but instead Villanelle just ran her fingertips over her pulse, still beating wildly.

            “I…” Alexandra began, but had to pause for more air. “I have a son.”

            “What?” It was out of the blue. It almost felt like a log to the face.

            “Harrison. He’s… eight.” Alexandra shook her head, let it fall heavily back onto the pillow. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. You’ve fucked me silly.”

            Things were always a little more complicated with kids in the picture. Yes, she had shot Konstantin, but with gut shots there was a _slight_ hope for survival. She’d liked his daughter. A delightful annoyance, that one. She shifted her weight, still astride one of Alexandra’s thighs. Villanelle asked, “Is he annoying?”

            Alexandra’s laugh was breathy. “God, yes. Quite loud. But endearing.”

            “Will he be home soon?”

            “I don’t think so. Why?”

            Villanelle shrugged. She leaned down to trail kisses across Alexandra’s abdomen. “Just wondering.”

            “You think someone’s missing me?” A pause. “Is someone missing you?”

            She was kissing lower. “Maybe.”

            “Is it this Eve person?” Alexandra said. Her hand found Villanelle’s hair, fingers weaving into it. She twitched at the first touch of tongue.

            “That… bastard,” Villanelle murmured. She didn’t know. The greatest mystery of the world was what Eve Polastri was doing right at this moment. Riding the tube. Reading a book. Wandering aimlessly. Showering. Spread out in bed and slowly masturbating. It was impossible to know. She wanted to know.

            “She must’ve—oh, fuck—hurt you pretty badly for you to—call her a bastard.”

            Villanelle scoffed. She replaced her mouth with fingers and surged up to kiss Alexandra. “I’m not here to talk about her.”

            Half an hour later, Alexandra had left and Villanelle was showering off the sweat and Alexandra’s floral perfume. She was hitting an imagined version of herself with a log over the fact that, when she was kissing Alexandra’s breasts, she’d imagined Eve’s instead. Except hers would be smaller. They would fit in her hands better.

            “Oh, I’m such a bastard,” Villanelle whispered, sinking to the floor and finally allowing her hand to travel south. As she came down five minutes later, shaky and spent, she realized that she’d soon have to go back to London.

 

—

The first order of business was to go back to Villanelle’s apartment. Which was proving to be a challenge because traffic in Paris was a goddamn nightmare. Eve took a taxi only halfway and walked the rest of the way. Coming into view of the apartment complex brought back unpleasant flashbacks. It was almost like she could see her own ghost walking through those doors. She was following that ghost, but then would follow Villanelle’s until it led absolutely nowhere, because that was what Eve knew would happen. She’d run into a dead end, and after that, it was only guesswork as to where that damn woman went.

            The building hadn’t changed at all. New tenants had moved in, but it still looked the same. Still had that flight of stairs. Eve climbed slowly, afraid her shoes were making far too much noise, sighing in relief when she stepped onto the landing without having attracted much attention. She rounded the corner and there at the end was that heavy, ghostly door. She steeled herself and walked on, heart turning rabbit-like inside her chest, even more so when she tried the handle and found it locked.

            “Shit,” she said. She tried it again, and again, as if jiggling it would will it into submission.

            A door down the hall opened, and it was the landlady.

            “Oh you,” the old woman said. “She’s been gone for weeks.”

            “I’m just… trying to figure out where,” Eve admitted.

            “Can’t help there, but can still let you in.” She procured a key from her cardigan pocket and made her slow way to Villanelle’s door.

            “Thank you,” Eve said when it was open. “I’ll lock it when I’m done.”

            There was a pile of mail that’d been slid underneath the door. Eve searched through that first, trying to find anything of interest. A lot of it was junk, short catalogues for designer brands of clothes or lingerie, advertisements for other apartments, and the like. Eve tossed them away. Then she came upon three postcards, all from different locations. Rome. Seville. Berlin. Each had a message on the back, too, with a name at the end: Konstantin. So that man had been trying to get in touch with her, not knowing she’d blinked off the European radar. Eve tucked the postcards into her jacket pocket, for safekeeping.

            She went further into the apartment, taking in how clean it was. Either Villanelle had visited a hospital to get stitched up and came back here to tidy, or someone else had come in. It was most likely the latter, given that the wound was near-fatal. Villanelle’s bedroom was virtually spotless. Her bed was made, the sheets stiff from not being slept in. No blood on them either, or on the floor. It looked as if they’d never been here, that the stabbing had never happened. But upon looking underneath the bed, there were a few drops that someone had missed. They weren’t bright red; they were crusted and brown, looking almost like a lighter motor oil. Eve swallowed back the discomfort and forced herself to keep going.

            The kitchen bore no signs of recent use either. Every dish, piece of silverware, and hardware was in its place, a little dust on it. The fridge still had one bottle of champagne left, the one Eve hadn’t gotten to in her fury of smashing. She could smash this one too, but if Villanelle ended up coming back here, it would be an unfortunate inconvenience to have to go out and buy more. So she left it and turned to the wardrobe. Its hinges squeaked when she opened the doors. The interior smelled of wood and clothes and she couldn’t help but reach for the first item she saw and bring it to her nose. Oh, Villanelle smelled wonderful. Eve knew this from their meeting in her old bathroom and, later, in the kitchen. She held the expensive dress closer, closing her eyes and imagining a body in it too. She could hold Villanelle like this someday, in this dress or naked… Eventually the reverie came to an end, and Eve put the dress back into place. She knelt to examine the drawers, finding jewelry—earrings with real diamonds or sapphires in them, pure silver bands for rings and larger, thinner ones for bracelets, necklaces with silver chains and various sized gems as the centerpiece that would touch Villanelle’s collarbones—small scraps of paper upon which there were notes written in French, various perfumes—none bearing Villanelle’s name; Eve had that one—and a gun with a box of bullets. So, Eve thought, sitting back, she hadn’t taken that gun with her. Or any of the wardrobe’s contents, for how could she? She’d left in a great hurry, hobbled her way to a hospital… then what? Stayed at that hospital while the wound healed enough so she could walk? Then hopped a plane to God-knew-where?

            “Hospitals,” Eve said. That’s where she had to go next. Yet she was rooted to the spot for a few more long moments, taking in the silence of the apartment amongst the noise of the city. It was, she realized, a nice apartment. Spacious, with lots of natural light coming in, and comfortable. Looking around was seeing Villanelle’s ghost instead of her own, walking with champagne or coffee or takeaway after arriving home, wearing her expensive dresses or suits or bathrobes or nothing at all. Christ, she was smitten.

            As promised, Eve locked the door to Villanelle’s apartment when she left. She was glad to be back outside, where the noise and the pressing matter of finding the right hospital could drown out fantasies of naked intimacy.

            The hospital Villanelle had gone to would’ve had to be close to the apartment. A quick Google search brought up two options. Like a lot of things lately, it was a fifty-fifty shot. Eve picked the closest and pulled up Villanelle’s picture. Granted, it was her mugshot, but her face hadn’t changed much in the last four years; only her hair.

            When she arrived at the hospital, Eve politely introduced herself to the nurses at the front desk and showed each of them the photograph, asking, “Have you seen this woman recently?” Each of them said no, though asked what day that woman was supposedly here. Eve gave them the date; it was nearly five weeks ago now. One of the nurses was checking something, and then she said, “Dr. Dubois was working that day. He may know something.”

            She paged him, and it only took a few minutes for him to arrive. Dr. Dubois was a tall man and looked to be in his mid-forties. He wore old-fashioned glasses, which he kept adjusting with an index finger. They shook hands.

            “I’m sorry to bother you at work, doctor,” Eve said, “but I need to know if you’ve seen this woman.” She turned her phone to him, and the doctor’s face paled immediately.

            “Please, come with me,” he said, and led her to the cafeteria. Out of politeness, Eve purchased food too, and followed him to a table in the corner after they’d both gotten coffee.

            “Yes, that woman was here,” Dr. Dubois continued. “Came through the staff entrance, found me. She… threatened me at gunpoint, told me to stitch her up. How could I not? She was bleeding profusely from a stab wound to the gut.”

            “How long was she here?”

            “Only a couple days.”

            “She didn’t tell you anything about where she was going?” Eve asked.

            Dr. Dubois shook his head. “I asked, but she said nothing. Only thanked me.” He rested his elbows on the table. “Why are you trying to find her? Has she done something wrong?”

            In this situation, it was best to tell a half-truth. Eve said, “I work for the British government. This woman is wanted for a string of murders. I’m just trying to get a handle on her whereabouts so we may finally catch her.”

            “I see. I’m sorry I can’t be of much more help. The incident and her leaving two days later are all I know.”

            “You’ve given me something to work with, Dr. Dubois, so you were quite a lot of help.”

            He seemed to be a little relieved.

            Eve stuck her hand out. “ _Merci,_ Dr. Dubois.” They shook again. Eve got up from the chair and was about to leave but pointed at her coffee cup. “Could I take this with me?”

 

            She immediately called Elena when she was outside the hospital’s doors. “I have news,” Eve said when Elena picked up.

            _“Does this mean you’ve got a lead?”_

“No, it’s not a lead. It’s a dead end.”

            _“Shit. Tell me anyway.”_

“She was here. Immediately after she fled her apartment she went to the closest hospital. I found the doctor who’d stitched her up and he said she threatened him at gunpoint until he agreed to stitch her up. She was there for two days and then she left. There’s nothing after that.”

            There was silence on Elena’s end save for some chatter and drawers opening. _“I have news for you too.”_

“What?”

            _“A package came for you. I’ve got it with me here but I can bring it to you when you get back home.”_

Eve’s stomach dropped and her heart went flying. It could mean one thing.

 

—

“Oh, you’re a savior and I love you,” Eve said, grabbing the bag of croissants and the package from Elena’s hands. “You should get back before someone sends another person to kill me for taking away your valuable time.”

            “You’ll call me about this later and have me come over?”

            “Sure.”

            “Save me a croissant.”

            “No promises,” Eve said, smiling what felt like her first genuine smile in weeks.

            With the door closed and locked, it was safe to let her nervousness show. She felt shaky, and her breath was a little shorter. Eve occupied her mouth with the buttery croissants while she made her way to the kitchen. She flipped the box over once it was on the table, and there on the top, in Villanelle’s distinct hand, was Eve’s old address. She got a kitchen knife and cut the tape, and despite every nerve wanting to tear the box open, she opened it delicately.

            There was a postcard facedown so that the message was visible, also in Villanelle’s hand.

            _Fuck you to the moon and back XX_

Eve flipped it over. On the front was a blueish picture of the Statue of Liberty.

            Villanelle was in New York.

            “God damn,” Eve said, heaving a monstrous sigh. She set the postcard and its cheeky message aside. There was something else in the box, wrapped in tissue paper. Eve unwrapped that too and took it out. It was an expensive outfit consisting of a charcoal grey blouse, black slacks, a suit jacket, and heels. There were even two bottles of perfume to go with it: a dark one that was musky and floral, and a white one that was vanilla. They were both lovely, but without a doubt, Eve knew she preferred the one that bore Villanelle’s name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come say hi on Tumblr, if you'd like!  
> kate-the-rabbit.tumblr.com :)


	5. Can't You Feel the Knife?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took far too long to write and yet it's the shortest chapter... Thank you for your patience!

“I am leaving.”

            Villanelle was at the back of the bar, where the staff came and went and where some went to smoke on their breaks. Alexandra had her arms crossed over her chest, warding off the chilly breeze.

            “Where?” she asked.

            “Back to London.”

            Alexandra nodded, face suddenly sad.

            “Oh, don’t cry,” Villanelle said. “We didn’t have anything.”

            “Why say goodbye to me then?”

            “It’s polite.” She sighed. Her flight left in an hour and a half. “Look,” she continued, keeping her voice soft, “it was nice. But—”

            “But you like this Eve,” Alexandra interrupted, not unkindly. “I know.” She held out her hand. “It was nice knowing you. Even though you haven’t told me your name this entire time.”

            Villanelle shook Alexandra’s hand, and properly introduced herself.

 

—

London hadn’t changed in the weeks that she was gone. Still loud and bustling, alive with citizens living in their own spheres. Having no place to go, Villanelle simply checked in to an extravagant hotel and immediately spread her belongings out to their places (closet and drawers.) She slept for most of the day on day one; jetlag and time differences were a bitch to deal with. Day two was slower, her body confused, yet she forced it into routine, mostly keeping indoors and ordering room service, drinking champagne until it seemed the world was relaxing around her. By day three, she’d had enough of indoor life, and so decided it was time to see if she could spot the woman who’d followed her to New York after all. Villanelle picked a weather-appropriate outfit and a favorite pair of boots, topping it off with a royal blue jacket. She hadn’t worn blue in a while and had quite forgotten how good she looked in it. The final touch was putting her hair up and covering it with a baseball cap.

            She took a cab to Eve’s old neighborhood, stepping out when her house was a block away. Here, the world was quieter; one had to drive if they wanted to get to town and its noise. It was an ordinary neighborhood where a seemingly ordinary woman had lived, but now it didn’t suit that woman anymore. And who knew what did?

            Villanelle stood just outside the house, observing. A few blinds were open but showed no movement from within. There was no car in the driveway either. Konstantin would ask if she was being naughty, and she would reply, “It’s what happens when you have ends to tie.” Once she knew no one was home, she procured the paper clips she’d stolen from the hotel’s front desk, hastily making them into lock-picking devices, and walked to the front door. It only took a minute.

            So, she thought as she stepped into the house, this was what became of Eve’s marriage. Things were too masculine and too bare; Eve had been cluttered, her belongings hanging by the door or strewn about the kitchen and in the rooms Villanelle had yet to visit. Her husband had kept the house, which meant that Eve was elsewhere.

            Villanelle stopped in the kitchen first, for old times’ sake. There was the table she’d sat at, properly introduced to Eve at last, eating dinner with the frightened and soaked woman. There was the wall her sweater-shirt had hung from, the wall against which Villanelle had slid the dress from her shoulders and glimpsed her nearly naked, spoken a truth, and averted her eyes. She imagined unzipping that dress again, lifting that amazing hair to one shoulder so that she could kiss the other, until she snapped out of it and left the cloying kitchen for rooms she hadn’t explored.

            There was an office not far from the kitchen. Villanelle flicked the light on and was met with bookshelves, a desk with someone’s laptop, and a comfortable chair. The bookshelves were barren; the desk too tidy. She examined the books on the shelves but they didn’t seem the type that Eve would read. Whatever that was. Villanelle plopped herself into the chair to examine the desk drawers’ contents. There were pens and notebooks, mostly filled with work-related things; envelopes and stationery, file folders containing documents of various legal things. Boring. Next drawer, and something more interesting: an address book. Opening it revealed a sticky note on the very first page, with Eve’s new address.

            “Bingo.”

 

—

Even if she was used to moving around a lot and staying in different places, there was always a longing to return home, to its familiarity. Home was Paris, the apartment with wood floors and a stylish pink bathroom with black and white tile, with a comfortable bed and a window that was right above a noisy street. Villanelle was tired of hotels. Tired of the sheets that smelled the same. Tired of the ever-changing rooms, no matter how lavish and comfortable they were. There were too many things she was wanting, and one of them was still in London. She told herself, _Soon, and then I will go home and get back to work._ Because surely there were postcards, unless, in her absence, the jobs had been passed on to someone else. But there was this weight of confrontation on her shoulders that she had to get rid of first.

            She took out the sticky note she’d made with Eve’s new address on it. She’d already committed it to memory, but there was something satisfying about saying the numbers and street name aloud. Did this new house suit her? In her husband’s absence, would it be messier than before, with more cluttered belongings? There was only one way to find that out.

           

            Villanelle dressed in a tracksuit suitable for almost-April weather. The pants had pockets—a rarity for women’s clothes—and she put the keycard in the right one. The hotel was only a half-hour away from Eve’s current neighborhood, shorter than that if she drove or took a cab, though driving around in the neighborhood was bound to look suspicious. Running was the way to go. No one would bat an eye at a jogger. Just run, she told herself, and you’ll look like one of them.

 

            If Eve’s former neighborhood had been boring, this one was far worse. The houses looked the same, though some of the front lawns and drives lacked maintenance, and there were different cars parked in front of them. Americans would call these houses cookie-cutters: identical in almost every way but with some flaw about them. The only good thing about this neighborhood were the trees. It was possible Eve moved here because it was a little closer to work. Or maybe it was what she could afford. Either way, it was plain. Eve’s house was no exception; there was nothing striking about it. Villanelle had to chuckle when she passed the house; it reminded her of Eve’s clothes. She slowed a bit on the second lap of the neighborhood so she could take in the front. The porch was small, crowded by a large door and too-large welcome mat. There was a single light that hung from the ceiling. To the left side of the porch was a large window that probably looked in to the sitting room. And even more to the left was a little gate that led to the back yard, partially hidden by a thick shrubbery in desperate need of trimming.

            Villanelle paused between Eve’s house and the one next door to the left to stretch. Part of her wanted Eve to emerge from the front door and see her stretching, ask her what the fuck she was doing. But the window was dark and the curtains were drawn. Nobody was home.

 

—

“The bastard is in New York.”

            Elena paused from applying a different shade of lipstick. “What?”

            “The package that came for me, the one you picked up? It had a postcard with it; the picture was the Statue of Liberty.”

            The cab went over a few bumps, and Elena continued with her lipstick. “You’re not thinking of going there, are you?”

            “I can’t afford it.”

            “Probably could charter a boat with some of your savings.” Elena shut her compact mirror. “Do you think Kenny would like this color?”

            “He’d like you in any color.”

            “I hope he’s a good dancer.”

            “Scuff his shoes,” Eve said. “That’ll let you know if he’s a keeper.”

            Elena chuckled. “What, would a gentleman tell me it’s okay to scuff his shoes?”

            “Precisely.”

            The dance hall had been a spur-of-the-moment thing. Bored from work and in need of something to shake things up, Elena had suggested an outing, just the three of them. She’d asked Eve and Kenny if they’d ever been to the dance hall across town.

            “Nope,” said Kenny.

            “Oh, a lifetime ago,” said Eve.

            The hall was lively, filled to the brim with music and the noise of cheerful dancers, some more sober than others. It was the opposite of a club. The lighting was more intimate and focused, brightest on the dance floor. The music wasn’t filled with heavy beats and bass. There were, however, two similarities: a bar, and a sufficient number of darker corners.

            “I’m going to need a drink,” Eve said.

 

“You don’t like to dance much, do you?”

            The current affair, a woman named Elizabeth, thought Villanelle was some accountant from a firm in America. She’d begrudgingly followed Elizabeth to this place out of politeness rather than out of fun. Dancing was something that happened for fun with Konstantin, or something that happened in bed. Villanelle, who was going by the name Janie tonight, shook her head, smiled like someone shy would. “No, not really.”

            “You could’ve said so,” Elizabeth said.

            “I was trying to be polite.” Villanelle turned back to the bar for her drink. “You go have fun, Elizabeth. I like watching you.”

            “You’ll keep an eye my drink?”

            “With my life.”  

            Elizabeth wove through the crowd to go back to her friends from work. She had a good sense of style, and her hair was the kind that didn’t want to be tamed, no matter how much product she put in it. She was married, but her husband was the strange kind of man who let her see people outside of the marriage. Slightly boring. It was so much more enjoyable when the husband didn’t know his wife was sleeping with another woman.

            The crowd to the bar was moving aside, and through the din, she caught wind of a familiar voice saying, “Excuse me.” She hopped from the stool in one smooth movement, grabbing Elizabeth’s drink instead of her own, and found an unoccupied dark corner that had a view of the bar. There was Eve in the flesh, hair down and wild, wearing one of the sweaters that’d been sent with the dress. She’d paired it with the slacks Villanelle had sent just weeks ago. Her heart was already soaring, and her mouth parted in a pleased smile despite the curling in her gut.

 

“Hi, a gin and tonic please.”

            Eve had a view of the dance floor from here. It was crowded with bodies dancing to classic rock. She glimpsed Elena and Kenny among them, smiling and close and connected by hands. God they were cute together. She could tell Elena to just ask him to dinner already, throw professional out the window.

            A different, slower song came on, and the lights dimmed. Everything became softer, more intimate, but it made Eve feel strangely uneasy. The bartender slid her drink over and she took a few hasty first sips. This place was full of strangers, their attention all on each other, and yet it felt like someone was watching her. She couldn’t spot the eyes, no matter how many times she looked around. She left the bar, taking her drink with her, and inspected the nearest dark corner, but it was empty.

            “Eve?” said Kenny from behind her.

            “Hey, sorry. I thought I saw someone I knew. Where’s Elena?” 

            “Went to powder her nose. Do you want to dance?”

            “Sure. But first,” she reached out to wipe a smear of plum lipstick off Kenny’s cheek, “better get that off before someone stares.”

 

The night air was refreshing after the stuffy, intimate heat of the dance hall. Villanelle stood a few feet away from the doors, breathing it in, thinking that, if she smoked, this would be the perfect opportunity. Choke Eve out one cancer stick at a time. Or maybe she would just blow it back.

            The doors opened and Elizabeth appeared, shrugging on her jacket. “Hey, you all right?”

            Villanelle kissed her as soon as she was near. Her mouth tasted like a martini. “Let’s get out of here,” Villanelle said. “I’ve wanted you all evening.”

           

—

Bravery ditched Villanelle, but she was content to watch from afar. For the last few days she’d kept watch over Eve’s house, perking up whenever Eve was in view, heart practically leaping when she stayed a few feet behind her in a crowd. It was like the early days, but much had changed since then. She had the wound to prove it. Today she had tailed Eve to the supermarket, and she was browsing the American section. Slightly boring, but still, it was information. She liked Klondike Bars. And various cereals. And… Canada Dry? It seemed they had that in common too.

            But much couldn’t be gained from this despite what Villanelle already knew. Eve and her husband were separated, but talked on occasion. Eve was a terrible cook, hence the frozen meals and the takeout. She’d taken to drinking more wine; Villanelle could sometimes see her downing it straight from the bottle if the sitting room curtains happened to be open. There would be lights playing on her face, perhaps a movie of some sort, or a TV show. Sometimes she longed to curl up on that couch and just watch something with Eve. They didn’t have to talk, except when comments about the movie were made. Would it descend into arguments, and, later, a kiss? She wanted to know. But it was too early for such a thing, and the bravery had to gather and fill her up before she dared knock on Eve Polastri’s door.


	6. I Might Regret This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If most of this chapter seems a bit out of character, it's because Villanelle is acting.   
> Thank you, as always, for your patience; and thank you so much for your readership and kudos and comments. It's about to happen!

“God I’m late, I’m late, I’m _fucking_ late…”

            Elizabeth was in the hotel’s bathroom, dressed in clothes from the night before that’d been washed and ironed early that morning. She was trying to pin up her unruly hair.

            “You should wear it down,” Villanelle said.

            “This mane? On a workday?”

            “Will you be fired because of your natural hair?”

            “No.” Elizabeth removed all the pins and her hair came tumbling back down. She left the pins on the countertop and exited the bathroom, hurrying to get her shoes back on. “Should I come back later?”

            “Let me know when your lunch is,” Villanelle said.

            She liked Elizabeth. She was charming, someone who cared, though perhaps a little too much. The evidence? She would lean to Villanelle after sex and her voice would be soft when she asked, “Okay?”

            Villanelle would bring her lunch, and then she would decide what to do. Elizabeth wasn’t Eve. The wrongness would start to eat away at her if she didn’t let Elizabeth go. She’d tell her it was just how she was. Have a little fun for a few weeks or less. Nothing more complicated than that.

            After Elizabeth left, Villanelle showered. She stayed underneath the stinging spray, thoughts drowning with Eve and the strangeness that’d happened at the dance hall. It was coincidence, or fate, if there was such a thing. It was something that Anna had believed in, more so when she’d had a little too much wine. Villanelle chalked it down as coincidence. People who had known each other but then grown apart happened to be in the same room sometimes, didn’t they? And didn’t one person, as soon as they saw the other, have a moment of cowardice and slink away to watch them from afar? Well, Villanelle thought, picking up her razor at last, she was no coward. It’s just seeing Eve was surprising. And refreshing. Despite it all, she seemed to be doing well, even if parts of her life had been ruined. Villanelle’s gut curled in on itself. She didn’t know what to think of that.

 

            Laden with Greek food, Villanelle stepped from the cab and straight onto the sidewalk outside of Elizabeth’s office building. The woman in question stood just outside, phone in hand, looking anxious. They spotted each other and Elizabeth waved her over.

            “There you are!” Elizabeth said. “I was worried you’d be later.”

            “I had a work thing before I came here, I’m sorry,” Villanelle said. “Is there a table somewhere?”

            She hadn’t been in the office building proper; the day she met—and seduced—Elizabeth, it’d been at a pub just a few blocks away. Now she was inside it and small bells of alarm were beginning to jingle at the back of her head, but Elizabeth didn’t lead her to any tables that would be in the public eye. There was a small courtyard at the back of the building, mostly reserved for those who wished to smoke or take private phone calls. They found a small table and indulged themselves in lunch.

            “I can’t really stay,” Villanelle said halfway through. Her lamb was almost gone.

            “What do you mean?”

            Villanelle thought for a moment of how best to word this news.

            “Janie?” said Elizabeth. “What’s going on?”

            “I’m not someone who wants permanence.” It was a soft lie. Permanence meant normal. A permanent but fun job, a home. Someone who could stay and watch movies. “I can’t stay with you,” Villanelle said.

            Elizabeth had stopped chewing. Her face was thoughtful, a little sad, perhaps. Then, “I think I knew that. I mean, I was hopeful it would turn out some other way because… well, I like you. But the night you disappeared from the dance hall? I thought it was because it was too much, or that you’d fled because you were still getting over someone.”

            Villanelle sighed, smiled in a way she thought would be surprise. “What’s the expression? Bang on?”

            Elizabeth chuckled. She really did have a pleasant smile. “Bang on, yes. That’s right.”

            Villanelle wrapped up the rest of her lunch. It would be something to snack on when she got back to her hotel. She came around to Elizabeth’s side and gave her a small kiss on the cheek. “Take care of that hair of yours,” she said.

 

—

In the days that passed, Villanelle spent them around Eve’s neighborhood and the dance hall. Eve was still trapped in an ordinary routine during the day. It wasn’t so fascinating to watch. The fascinating parts happened at the dance hall, when Eve would linger at the bar with her gin and tonic and look like she wanted to join the crowd of dancers but was struck with self-consciousness. Sometimes Villanelle would imagine scenarios where she’d go up to Eve and ask her to dance, and Eve, who would probably still be scared of her, would accept. Villanelle supposed the dancing would be stiff on Eve’s part, filled with reluctance and a longing to run. But again, Eve was unpredictable, much like a hurricane travelling through the ocean. Where would it make landfall? What destruction would it leave in its wake?

            Villanelle decided that, if she did confront Eve, she would soak in whatever torrent Eve wished to deliver.

 

—

It was storming on the day Villanelle decided a confrontation was necessary. It was two long weeks later, and the rain was cold and came down in heavy, fat drops, static against her umbrella. She walked quickly up the sidewalk and drive, emotions she’d rather not feel churning in her gut. She shut her umbrella, shook the water off. She was fueled by low-simmering anger, but also by need. Being so close and yet so far from Eve was maddening. She’d avoided the need for weeks, but like a lot of things, it was inevitable that she’d give in to it.

            “I might regret this,” Villanelle said aloud, and raised her hand to knock.


End file.
